


Like As Two Peas

by KillClaudio



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Dating, Episode: s02e05 Bury the Lede, M/M, Pining, dead men telling tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 21:11:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16940808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillClaudio/pseuds/KillClaudio
Summary: John did not suffer fools any more than Harold did; it was one of the many things he respected and admired about John. Harold should take care, therefore, not to act the fool.After his disastrous evening with Maxine Angelis, John tries to get Harold to teach him some of the finer points of dating. What could go wrong?





	Like As Two Peas

**Author's Note:**

> This story started because of a throw-away comment I made on Tumblr, to the effect that it makes no sense for John to be so useless on his date with Maxine Angelis when he’s seemingly so capable of winning the numbers’ trust at other times. It was supposed to be short.
> 
> Huge thanks to MnemonicMadness for cheerleading and listening to me whine about how hard writing is. Patience of a saint. <3

Harold had never thought of John as his employee, official arrangement notwithstanding. John accepted both the need to help the numbers and the convenience of having Harold pay him a salary. In every way that mattered, they were a partnership.

It made employee evaluations a little awkward.

The date with Maxine Angelis had been a disaster. He didn’t like to comment on John’s work, certain that John was his own harshest critic in any case. But at any time their lives might depend on them both doing their job to their utmost ability, and Harold could not afford to let this go.

Thankfully, John raised the subject himself. He was already waiting in the library when Harold and Bear arrived the next morning, lounging in Harold’s chair with his feet on the table – yet again – and a book in his lap. As Bear trotted over to greet him he held it up, safely away from Bear’s unique approach to literature, and Harold saw that it was Raymond Chandler.

Relaxed, clean, well-fed. It was a transformation from the man he’d been when Harold found him, and he couldn’t help a tinge of possessive pride. So long as it was Harold’s privilege to care for John, he would never want for anything.

No good could come of that line of thought. Harold hung his coat up and looked at John pointedly until he vacated the seat.

"How did you fare with Ms. Angelis yesterday?" Harold asked.

John put on an exaggerated expression of regret. "I struck out. She doesn’t want to see me again."

"I’m sure you’ll live with the disappointment," Harold said.

"Maybe you should have gone on the date instead. What exactly did you say to her, anyway?"

"I merely asked a few questions about her job and interests. There were plenty of details in her dating profile. Most people like to talk about themselves." Harold hesitated. Delicately, he asked, "Didn’t the CIA train you for this kind of scenario? Building rapport with a mark?"

"It’s been a while," John said ruefully. "Most of my time with the Agency, I was doing high-level prisoner interrogations, extraordinary rendition, mole-hunting."

That was an avenue best not explored. "Not to worry, Mr. Reese. I doubt it will be required again."

"I guess not." John shrugged. "It might be useful, though. Getting information. It’s just my flirting skills are a little rusty."

John had never seemed to have any problems when he was flirting with _Harold_. He decided to keep that one to himself, too. "Perhaps you should ask Ms. Morgan to practice with you."

John turned to make a fuss of Bear for a moment, and without looking at Harold, he said, "You could practice with me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're the expert, Harold. I was thinking, if I took you out to dinner, you could go over what you said to Maxine. Some of that social engineering stuff. Maybe it will come back to me."

Harold was floored. "I hardly think that would be appropriate."

"How else am I going to learn?"

"I'm really not sure about this, Mr. Reese."

"Come on." John nodded to the cartons in the trash. "It’ll be good for you to eat something other than Chinese food."

"The Chinese are very healthy," Harold said defensively.

"Yeah, but I don’t think most of them are eating donuts for breakfast and Happy Buddha pork dumplings for lunch."

"Who brought the donuts?" Harold asked.

"Then let me make it up to you by buying you dinner. Someplace nice. Please."

John’s pleading eyes were almost impossible to resist. Harold had long since given up trying. "Very well. Now, if you can contain your urge to play Don Juan, Mr. Reese. We have a number."

Their number turned out to be a delivery driver who was working on four hours of sleep and amphetamines for breakfast. It didn't take a genius to spot the danger in that. John gave him a stern lecture on road safety and threw his keys in the Hudson as he left. Harold reported the company for unsafe practices, then arranged an anonymous transfer of funds to the man's account to give him some breathing room while he found another job. They had it wrapped by eleven thirty, and ate deli sandwiches in the Library for lunch, John feeding Bear when he thought Harold wasn’t looking.

Reluctantly, Harold dropped Bear at his doggy day-care and used the afternoon to show his face at Universal Heritage Insurance. John went to put in some work on his own cover, complaining as he went about reckless idiots who tried to drive while they were high, and didn't anyone plan good old-fashioned murders any more?

John did not suffer fools any more than Harold did; it was one of the many things he respected and admired about John. Harold should take care, therefore, not to act the fool.

He wasn't at all sure that he could sit across from John at dinner and talk about flirting and building rapport and maintain his equanimity. It was typical of John, who had crashed right through every attempt at distance and boundaries on Harold’s part, to have somehow identified this last vulnerability.

Talking to Maxine had been easy. First dates followed a predictable pattern of conversation, and it wasn’t difficult to fit into that pattern and be mildly entertaining besides. What Harold wanted from John was of an entirely different order. He already knew where John grew up and what he did for a living. What was captivating were the little glimpses Harold sometimes got of things that weren't written in any file, of John's tendency to whistle in the mornings, his surprisingly detailed knowledge of coffee. And he was hungry for more, hungry to learn everything he possibly could about John.

It would be a joy and a pleasure to court John, to buy him dinner and take care of him and make him feel loved. But not like this. Not this cruel mockery of what he really wanted.

Hiring John had proved to be one of the best decisions Harold had ever made. His dedication to the numbers, his belief in truth and justice, his unwavering sense of right and wrong. His extraordinary kindness. Harold was grateful every day for the friendship and loyalty of such a man. His dreams were his own problem.

Harold had half-hoped that a new number might come in before evening, but seven-thirty saw him showered and changed and back at the library, listening anxiously for John’s footsteps.

He didn’t have to wait more than a few minutes. The sound of John’s dress shoes on the marble steps floated in, shortly followed by the man himself. John was freshly shaved, and wearing his usual dark suit with a crisp white shirt. He looked the same as he did every day; which is to say, he looked ravishing.

He strolled into the library and came to a halt in front of Harold’s chair. "Ready? I’ve got a table booked at Peter Luger."

"Peter Luger?" Harold raised his eyebrows. "How on earth did you manage that at such short notice?"

John shrugged. "We got lucky. There was a cancellation."

"There was no need to go to so much trouble."

"It was no trouble. I could do with a good meal, and so could you. Besides, I remember you like their steaks."

Well. Accumulating information on someone was part of John’s training, after all. "Lead on," Harold said, and picked up his coat. He looked around cautiously when they reached the street. "Please tell me you didn’t steal another car."

John laughed. "Maxine didn’t seem impressed, so I figured I’d skip that part. How about a cab?"

* * *

Even on a weeknight, the restaurant was packed. John insisted on pulling Harold’s chair out for him, an old-fashioned courtesy that got them a couple of odd looks from other diners. John smiled at them the way a friendly shark might, and they all quickly redirected their attention.

They ordered a bottle of wine, and John settled in across the table with a faintly smug expression.

"So. How was your day, dear?"

"Not terribly productive," Harold admitted. "My employees believe I barely know how to turn my computer on, and maintaining the illusion makes it hard to get anything done."

"I know you get withdrawal symptoms any time you're not near a computer," John said. "What made you decide to use insurance as a cover, anyway?"

"Universal Heritage is a real insurance company. It wouldn't have lasted this long otherwise." Something occurred to Harold. "Perhaps we should take this opportunity to practice our covers? You should get used to making small-talk as John Warren."

"Harold." John gave him the puppy-dog eyes. "You want to have dinner with John Warren and not me? Besides, we don’t use the Warren cover for work."

"Well, no—"

The waiter returned with their wine, momentarily distracting Harold, and John pounced again as soon as he was gone.

"You’re telling me you’re an expert in insurance as well as computers, counter-surveillance and men’s tailoring?"

Harold smiled. "I’m an expert in many things, Mr. Reese. But as it happens, insurance is mostly about accurately predicting human behavior. I can assure you that compared to the Machine, calculating the probability that someone will crash their car is trivial. Some of my earliest work on behavioral probability went into Universal Heritage’s algorithms, although they're nowhere near as sophisticated as the Machine."

"So your employees know you went to MIT but think you can’t turn on your computer?"

"They think I was a math major. With an emphasis on the management of risk and actuarial studies."

Harold had to take a sip of wine to conceal his smile. John gave him an annoyed frown, but it was the look he used when he was teasing, devoid of any genuine anger.

"An actuary? I’m starting to think _you_ wanted to go on that date with Maxine."

"Hardly, Mr. Reese. I was getting ready to feed you information when you evaded her question. I'm afraid I had to back-engineer the matching algorithm so you would come up as a match for her, so there was a limit to how similar I could make you and Mr Anderson."

"Luckily, I do like Hitchcock movies. But you already knew that, Harold. You know exactly everything about me."

John's teasing tone made him swallow. "Not quite everything, Mr. Reese."

"Do you call all your dates by their last names?"

So much for trying to keep his distance. "Of course not, John." Harold cast around for a distraction. "Perhaps we should order?" he asked.

"Sure."

As if on cue, a waiter materialized to hand them menus. John smirked at Harold over the top of his, then deliberately reached into his inner pocket and pulled out the glasses he’d worn with Ms. Angelis.

Harold hadn’t been above enjoying himself a little when he set John up with Maxine. The glasses had been a private joke, the idea of his very own Superman disguising himself for a date with Lois Lane. He was paying for it now.

John looked breathtaking in the glasses. They made him look serious and distinguished, and devastatingly attractive. Seeing him every day, it was hardly possible to forget how good-looking John was. But still, Harold hadn't been prepared for the way the glasses softened the strong lines of his face and enhanced John's piercing gaze. God, but John was a sight for sore eyes. Harold leaned back, using his own menu as a cover to look at John, drinking in the way his dark eyelashes almost brushed his cheek when he looked down, the tiny smile curling the edge of his lips.

It was fortunate Harold knew the menu by heart, because he hadn't looked at a single word. They ordered a salad each and steak for two, then debated the merits of various sides until Harold sighed and ordered one of everything, including both French and German fried potatoes. They could always take the leftovers home.

Harold launched into a history of the french fry, its possible Belgian origins, and the centuries-long gastronomic feud it had inspired. Impersonal facts were safe ground, and it seemed to keep John mildly entertained for at least a few minutes.

"Is this how you got a date with Maxine? By telling her about the riveting history of french fries?"

"Of course not, Mr. Reese. Everything I needed to make conversation with Maxine was right there in her dating profile. She was clearly devoted to her job, so it wasn’t hard to get her to talk about the huge changes in investigative journalism over the past decade. And there isn’t a person on the planet who doesn’t believe their job is actually harder than it looks."

John raised his eyebrows. "That’s how you charmed her? Telling her how hard her job is? She wasn’t laughing about that."

"We were joking about New York's idea of a snowstorm. Maxine is from the Midwest."

"And you bonded over shared origins?" John asked lightly.

Harold glared at him. He wasn’t going to fall for that. "Midwestern transplants to New York tend to talk about many of the same things. How Midwesterners apologize a lot. The first time they saw places they’d only seen in the movies. The outrageous price of rent and how their friends back home are horrified by how much everything costs. She said her family think all she does in New York is drink champagne."

"She doesn’t even like champagne," John said without missing a beat.

"Well, at least you listened the second time." Harold said. "Ms. Angelis also reads a great deal. It wasn’t difficult to keep up a conversation about books for a few hours. I noticed you’ve been reading Dostoevsky and Hemingway, so I mentioned those. I didn’t think she’d be impressed by Stress Fractures in Titanium."

John raised his eyebrows. "You’ve been taking notes."

"She also had a quote from Kipling on her profile, and was most impressed that I recognized it. Or should I say, that you recognized it. Apparently she hasn’t heard of Google."

"Kipling? That’s a little old-fashioned, isn’t it? Didn’t think 'jingo imperialists' were that popular with the kids these days. And after she quoted Orwell, too."

John’s smirk said he’d hoped to catch Harold off-guard, but Harold wasn’t surprised. He never underestimated John's intelligence for a second. "I didn’t suggest as much to her. Criticizing her taste in poetry didn’t seem conducive to getting a date."

"I’ll try to remember that for next time."

"I did nearly come unstuck when she asked me some unexpectedly detailed questions about kayaking. Perhaps I shouldn’t have made you the outdoorsy type."

John smiled. "How did you get out of that one?"

"Apparently you’ve never heard of Google, either."

It didn't take long for the waiter to return with their first course. Harold speared a lettuce leaf while he considered his conversation with Maxine.

"Maxine’s job seemed very important to her, so I took care to spend a fair amount of time talking about it. Not everyone would react so favorably, of course. It’s a matter of personal taste."

"Oh? So what topic would you choose for me?"

"It’s hardly a fair comparison. I’d done a considerable amount of research on you before we met, and I’ve gotten to know you even better since."

John shrugged. "If I was chatting up a number, you would have done just as much research."

Harold doubted that. His research on John had been extensive. "What difference does it make, when you apparently don’t read any of it?"

"We’d had a busy day."

"You had time to steal a car," Harold told him pointedly.

John looked supremely unconcerned.

"Forgive me, but I also told her you were a terrible singer. Psychological studies have shown that an individual perceived to be highly competent — an actuary at the top of his profession, for example — become much more likable if they commit the occasional blunder or admit to weaknesses. And people put more trust in those who are able to admit their faults, not to mention that self-deprecating humor is generally—"

"I'm not sure the theory’s exactly working for me. I think I do better with a practical demonstration." John leaned back in his chair, smiling over his wineglass. "So, come on, Harold. Flirt with me."

Harold took a deep breath. Flirting with John was absolutely out of the question. John would undoubtedly flirt back with enthusiasm, and that was too close to what he really wanted to be anything other than painful. But polite conversation he could manage, and with a bit of luck, he could distract John long enough for him to forget about the lesson.

"So, tell me." He summoned an impersonal smile. "How are you enjoying _The Long Good-bye_?"

"We’re starting with 'read any good books lately'?" John asked. "It’s not bad. I liked _The Big Sleep_ better, although I’m still waiting to find out who killed the chauffeur."

"The famous unanswered question. Chandler cannibalized some of his short stories to write it, so little wonder there are a few plot holes."

"I guess nobody reads Chandler for the plot. You read it for the atmosphere."

"I read them a few years ago and I’m fairly certain I got alcohol poisoning by proxy."

The conversation about books carried them through their appetizer, until the waiter whisked away their empty plates and brought out the entree. The steak looked delicious, with a rich color to the caramelized crust and only a dash of light seasoning.

Harold pushed his sleeves up a little and carefully spread his napkin over his lap.

"Careful, Harold. Wouldn't want to mess up your Armani."

Harold sniffed. "I hope I have better taste than to wear Armani," he said primly, for the sheer satisfaction of watching John trying to smother his smile.

It turned out that John liked Ken Kesey and Lorenzo Carcaterra, had read many of the same classics as Harold, and had a surprising penchant for cosy mysteries and Agatha Christie. He talked fondly of the Tom Clancy books his father used to read, and let Harold ramble about the classics of science fiction without complaint, asking questions and making interested comments.

John stopped him half way through a comparison of Asimov and Vonnegut. "You’ve got a lot of expensive first editions in the library. I hope you’ve got fire safety protocols in place."

"Of course. The building complies with all safety codes, even if it hasn't been officially inspected. There are smoke alarms and automatic sprinklers everywhere, and everything irreplaceable is in a fireproof box installed behind the bookcases."

"Oh?" John asked. "What’s in there?"

A first edition of _Fahrenheit 451_ that Nathan had bought him for his thirtieth birthday. A copy of _Sense and Sensibility_. _Ornithological Biography_ by John James Audubon, which had originally belonged to his grandfather. The things he would save from a burning building.

John had trapped him rather neatly with that one, and he would surely look next time they were in the library. But there was no reason for Harold to make it easy on him.

"Books, Mr. Reese. What else?"

"You know, if this is your flirting technique, Finch, you’re even worse at it than I am."

Harold was not going to be baited into flirting with John, no matter how much he might enjoy it. He ignored the teasing and focused on their conversation. "I'm impressed by how diverse your taste in literature is."

John shrugged. "When your only reading choices are whatever you can find in second-hand bookshops in Budapest or Muscat or Guangzhou, you take what you can get. And it’s surprising how much downtime is involved in international espionage."

"I suppose even spies need entertainment."

"And you appreciate it all the more when it's gone," John said. "When I was in the Green Berets, we were doing recon in Novi Sad when we were attacked by KLA rebels. Didn't work out too well for them. I got a pretty nasty blow to the back of the head, woke up in a field hospital in Belgrade with the world's worst headache and blurry vision in both eyes. I was there for ten days waiting for the swelling to go down. Thought the boredom would drive me crazy." He gazed into his wineglass, staring at something Harold couldn't see. " 'Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.' "

Sometimes Harold thought he’d got John’s measure, only for John to surprise him all over again. " _To Kill A Mockingbird_ ," he said.

John smiled at him. "And you didn’t even have to google it."

John's confession had a purpose. Revealing personal details put the other person at ease, made it more likely that they would mirror the behavior. Harold knew he could trust John; that he was the last person in the world who would use personal information to exploit him. There was no reason to fear John, except for the fact that fear had kept Harold alive for forty years.

"Did you see the movie?" Harold asked.

"I liked it. It wasn't the same as the book, though."

"Perhaps, but the movie should have a life of it's own away from the book. You can't compare the two."

They argued comfortably about movie adaptations, then about movies. Harold enjoyed listening to John talk about Hitchcock, and Cary Grant, and how much of _North by Northwest_ had been filmed in New York. "Including at the Plaza Hotel, which I'm betting you've stayed in a time or two."

"Not for a few years now. I like the anonymity of hotels, and people go to the Plaza to be seen. Pity. There are some nice restaurants in the area."

"I liked that one we went to with the octopus and bone marrow pasta."

Harold made a face. John could eat almost anything, and Harold had sat across the table from him as he cheerfully consumed pig trotters, century egg, blowfish, and any number of other indigestible things. Harold ate another delicious piece of steak. He preferred the classics.

John noticed his expression. "You know, you should get out more, Finch. Try something new. You might like it. You should have tried that uni sandwich I had last week."

Sea urchin. Harold shuddered. "Nothing that has that many spines is meant to be eaten. I'm perfectly capable of managing an interesting and varied diet without including things that barely qualify as food."

"What about ice cream? There's a place in Brooklyn that does foie gras flavor, I was thinking we should go some time. Make a change from vanilla."

"Passing fads, Mr. Reese. The real challenge for a chef is to cook something simple, where there's nowhere to hide if you get it wrong. The perfect vanilla ice cream is a feat of mastery. So is the perfect steak." He held up his fork in illustration.

"And the perfect cup of tea?" John asked.

"Precisely." That inevitably brought back the memory of the first time he'd brought tea for Harold. And oh, Harold should not use this as an excuse to tease John. But with two glasses of wine inside him and the weight of John’s gaze heavy on his face, the idea was getting more appealing by the second.

"So, John," Harold asked, "have you guessed my favorite color yet?"

"Not yet," John said easily. "I'm beginning to suspect orange, judging by your ties."

"It's not orange." Harold looked at him. There was an old fairground trick he'd learned as a teenager, unlikely to work on a man as well-trained as John, and yet— "Can I guess your favorite color?"

"You can try."

"All right. Hands flat on the table. Look at me. Black." Harold started with the most improbable thing he could think of to get a baseline. John didn't move. "White. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue." Ah. There was the slightest change in John's breathing, and he was resolutely not blinking. "Blue?"

John smiled. "Sorry, Finch. It's red."

"Damn." He should have known that wouldn't work on John.

"I'm pretty impressed though. That your party trick?"

"I used to do it at college parties sometimes. It saved having to make small talk. People who are relaxed and drunk and not trained by the CIA are more likely to give themselves away." Harold took a sip of wine. "And my favorite color is purple."

John's smile was warm and bright. "Is that so?"

"I mean, I wouldn't have a whole suit made in it, or paint it on my walls, but otherwise yes, it's my favorite."

"When I was ten, I asked my mom if I could paint my bedroom my favorite color. For some reason she didn't like the idea of covering the walls and ceiling with fire-engine red. I sulked for a three whole days."

Harold laughed. "I'll bet you were a terror."

"Tore my clothes to shreds climbing trees and stayed out past dinnertime," John agreed. "I'm sure you caused your fair share of trouble, Mr. Give Me A Minute While I Hack The Federal Government."

"When I was older, perhaps. As a child I just wanted to take things to pieces. Rebuild them. Make them work better. I was always excited to find out what was going to come next. Too many science fiction novels, I suppose. I imagined one day I was going to have my very own flying car."

"A jetpack and a summerhouse on Mars."

"That's right." Of course John would remember a throw-away remark from the day they met. "I suppose it was inevitable I'd become a programmer. It was that or a mad-scientist inventor like Doc Brown."

"Well, you kind of have the hair," John teased, glancing at Harold's spikes. "And here we are, living in the future."

"Here we are." Harold was full. He pushed his plate away and tipped a little more wine into both their glasses. He felt pleasantly buzzed, still mostly in control. "Did you always want to be a soldier?"

John's expression was rueful. "No. I don't remember ever wanting to be anything in particular. I just… fell into it. Turned out I was good at it." He picked his napkin up and folded it on the table, contemplating. "I knew about four weeks into basic training. All the guys who'd seen _Top Gun_ too many times had dropped out by then. Things started to get serious.

"The drill sergeants ride you hard; that's their job. But there was one who was just a bully. He picked on the smallest guy in our division, blamed him for everything. We'd hit our bunks every night and this kid would still be doing push-ups or standing in the corner. One day during inspection he was missing one of his towels. I've never seen anyone look so scared. We all thought he was going to have a meltdown."

"You gave him one of yours, didn't you?" Harold asked.

"What else was I supposed to do? So I get chewed out by the sergeant, who suspects but can't prove anything, and then we all get dragged down to the firing range. And told that the whole division is going to be cleaning the exercise yard with toothbrushes, unless I can hit the bullseye five times in a row."

Harold couldn't have stopped his smile if he'd tried. He suspected he knew where this was going. "Did you manage it?"

John nodded. "Shooting isn't a physical thing, it's in your head. Co-ordination and, uh, timing. So every night I'd lie in my bunk and imagine hitting the target. I got pretty good at it. I got into position, and I put five bullets straight through the center. The DI had a face like stone. We all got sent back to barracks without another word, guys slapping me on the back and shaking my hand. That kid never got picked on again. First time in my life I felt like I'd done something worthwhile."

The expression John was wearing made Harold feel warm all the way through. John’s smiles were addictive. Hoping to keep him smiling, knowing he shouldn’t do it, he decided to risk it anyway.

"Did I ever tell you about the most horrendous investor Nathan and I ever had?"

John sat back in his seat with a smile. "No. What was so terrible about him?"

"At first he was simply irritating; calling us with questions at all hours of the day, things we'd already told him a million times before, bragging constantly about how much money he made. He was always intending to invest after we'd cleared up this one little thing. Even the way he breathed was obnoxious. He also started introducing us as his protégés at parties, in spite of the fact that we had nothing to do with him. 

"Dicking you around."

"Without giving us a penny, I might add. Our reputation started to suffer by association. We were at a party one night when he started harassing one of the serving girls, Olivia. Wouldn't take no for an answer. Nathan always had a particular weakness for damsels in distress, and I was never that fond of people abusing their authority, not to mention all the reasons why we already despised him.

"So we asked Olivia to take him into one of the bedrooms and see if she could get him to take off his clothes, while Nathan hung around in the corridor in case she needed his help. Meanwhile, I went outside to steal his car."

John’s delighted grin lit up his whole face, and Harold couldn’t find it in him to regret anything. "Finch. I didn't know you had it in you. Do you have a misspent youth as a carjacker you're not telling me about?"

"Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid. I spent a lot of time helping my dad patch up our old truck. One year the ignition gave out and we had to hotwire the car every time we wanted to go anywhere."

John had covered his mouth with his hand, and his eyes were dancing. "So you stole his car."

"Well, borrowed it, really. I broke in very theatrically, giving Nathan time to rush into the bedroom and tell him what was going on. Olivia had pushed his clothes under the bed, so Nathan was able to hustle him down the stairs and outside in nothing but his undershirt and briefs. And then lock him out."

"Please tell me it was winter." John was outright laughing now.

"Late spring, but we felt comfortable leaving him out there for a good long time. I parked around the corner and then Nathan let me in the back door, and we went upstairs to tell everyone. The whole party stood by the window cheering and mocking him. He hadn't made himself popular. And he never tried to give us his money again."

John raised his glass. "To not letting the bullies win."

They both drank.

"You must have met a lot of rich assholes while you were running IFT."

"A fair few. Computer geeks have our faults, but rich executives are in a league of their own." Harold swirled the wine in his glass. It caught the light, reflecting tiny beams across the tablecloth. "Give a man a fortune, and you see his true face. Some people will drown themselves in luxury until they're unable to withstand even the slightest discomfort. Some people surround themselves with sycophants who praise them until they're incapable of seeing the world without themselves at the center of it.

"But I think I always loved the power. The unseen hand that reaches out and shapes the world to its liking. The man who is rude to his staff is fired. The woman who fosters sick dogs has her start-up funded."

"Isn't that what we do?" John asked. "Every day, one more thing set right in the universe? There's nothing so bad about that."

"I always worry that we're playing God. Interfering in people's lives in a way we have no right to. Getting to decide who lives and who dies."

"Harold," John said. "You're the one who insisted on protecting everyone. Mob bosses. Trained killers. Don't let Root get to you."

John's approval meant more to Harold than he'd realized. "I think you’re getting the hang of this, Mr. Reese. I feel quite consoled."

John reached across the table and lightly covered Harold’s hand with his own. "It’s the truth."

Of course it was. John’s sincerity was a beacon, and just as unmistakable. "Thank you," Harold managed.

"I'm not pretending anymore, Finch. I haven't been for a long time."

"I know," Harold said quietly, and the warmth of John's hand on his prompted him to add, "Do you call all your dates by their last names?"

"No, Harold," John murmured, the soft smile still in place, and stroked his thumb across the sensitive skin of the inside of Harold's wrist.

Harold was seized with the sudden urge to run. How could he possibly resist John when he was this warm and intimate? How could he prevent himself from falling even further in love with the kindest and most decent man Harold had ever met?

He stood abruptly. "Excuse me." His voice came out almost normal. "I won't be a moment."

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. This evening had not turned out to be the uncomfortable game of cat and mouse he had feared. It hadn't been the embodiment of his dreams either, but it had been a taste. He would enjoy it, and then he would let it go. He would be grateful for what he had. John's friendship was more than enough.

When he returned, John was looking at the menu again. "Are you too full for dessert?"

"Have you ever known me to turn down dessert?"

"Strong words from a man who just ate eight ounces of prime beef and two different kinds of fried potatoes."

They finished up their meal with apple strudel and whipped cream, and a glass each of single-malt scotch. The conversation moved back into harmless, impersonal subjects. John’s smile across the table was the familiar one that Harold knew from every time they had concluded a case and saved a life, a simple happiness that it was safe to share.

Harold’s back was to the door, but for the first time in many years, it didn’t bother him. John had chosen the chair facing the room, and Harold had let him, content to trust John to watch his back. 

After spending most of his adult life running and hiding, it was strange and wonderful to be able to relax in public, to sit here without his defenses up, trust absolutely that John would never let any harm come to him. Strange to think that here in this warm circle of lamplight with John was the safest place in the world.

Silence had fallen between them again, a comfortable lull in a conversation between two close friends. It had reached that point in the evening; the lights lower, the chatter quieter, couples starting to leave. Harold relaxed, and let the peaceful atmosphere take hold of him.

In the soft light John’s eyes were the color of burnished steel. Harold allowed himself a few minutes of fantasy; that he really was here on a date with John; that dinner would be followed by warm hands and soft kisses; that he was the one lucky enough to take John home. That if Harold took better care of John than anyone else ever had, he might be allowed to keep him.

The wait staff were starting to cast sidelong glances towards them. Harold signaled for the check, but John got there first, vanishing it from the startled waiter’s hand before he’d even noticed it was gone. "I got this. I invited you."

"No, John—"

"Relax. You pay me enough to afford it."

Outside, John hailed a cab and Harold gave them the address of the kennel where Bear was no doubt being showered with attention.

John was silent for a while, watching the city lights flashing past outside the window. Finally he turned to look at Harold. "How much of that was true, tonight?"

Harold was startled. "All of it." He had thought John was aware that Harold wasn’t playing games anymore either. "Every word."

"Really?" John slid down in his seat and leaned a little closer. "Anyone would think you're starting to like me, Harold."

Harold’s body responded involuntarily to John’s voice, the low hum of it like the engine of a sports car. He felt the shivers down his neck, and the unmistakable stirring between his legs. He shifted away a little, hoping John hadn't noticed.

"Not that you should have behaved that way with Ms. Angelis, of course. I'm afraid this evening was not a success. You were supposed to practice what you would say to a number."

"Oh, well." John said equably. "It would have caused more problems in the long run if she'd liked me."

In the light evening traffic the journey to Tribeca only took ten minutes. Bear reacted as though they'd been apart for months instead of only a few hours, alternately nosing John's hand and rubbing his head against Harold's leg while he thwacked his tail against everything in reach. Harold attached his lead and told him sternly to _zich gedragen_.

The night outside was warm. They strolled in the direction of John's apartment, giving Bear a chance to sniff anything that caught his fancy and work off his excess energy. As they rounded the corner by Columbus Park, John glanced over at Harold.

"Come up for a drink? If you want?"

Harold knew better, but he still couldn't help the rush of delight. "I'd be glad to."

John gave him a fond smile and held the door open for them both. In the apartment, he shooed Harold over towards the couch, then headed for the kitchen to start the percolator and heat water for Harold's tea.

He also fed Bear what Harold considered a completely excessive number of treats. "Mr. Reese," he said with a frown. 

"We just ate the best dinner money can buy in New York. Bear deserves something too."

"That's right, I forgot that you bought him to be a pampered pet and not a guard dog."

"He can be both." John brought out Harold's mug of tea and handed it to him. "Also, reverse psychology, Harold? You're losing your touch."

Harold snorted. "I think you'll find that was sarcasm. Although it seems your people skills aren’t as rusty as you thought."

As he drank his tea, a niggle that had been floating in the back of Harold's mind made itself known. John was _good_ at this. He had handled his 'date' with Harold this evening with perfect composure. During their work, Harold had watched him charm diplomats, Wall Street bankers, drug dealers, doctors, mobsters… He was very good at winning people's trust. If Harold had been paying more attention instead of indulging in ridiculous fantasies, he might have seen it sooner.

Harold went and stood in the door of the kitchen, where John was humming as he added cream to his coffee. "John? What did you mean that it would have caused more problems if Maxine had liked you?"

John looked up. "She might have wanted to see me again, maybe taken too much of an interest in me. In tense situations people can attribute their adrenaline response to romance instead of fear. There was a study in the seventies, I forget what it was called…"

"The Bridge Study," Harold said dismissively. John already knew that, and was trying to distract him. "Seems like a fortunate coincidence that you made such a bad impression, then."

John shrugged. "Just a lucky side-effect."

Like hell it was. "You threw the date on purpose. You didn’t want it to go well."

John was wearing an expression that was familiar to Harold from all the times he'd caught John trying to crack his password or riffling through his drawers. Guilt, but not shame. He'd done something he wasn't supposed to do, and as soon as Harold's back was turned, he'd do it again. 

Harold was outraged. "John!"

"What? You were the one telling me how important it was to keep my distance. She didn't want to see me again, and we've managed to keep my superhero identity a secret."

"You might have said something," Harold said. 

"If you really expected me to be better at this," John said, "why did you arrange for Zoe to lurk in the restaurant, ready to rescue me?"

Harold hesitated. "I— well, I thought it best we have a contingency plan—"

"Because I’ve got to tell you, it didn’t really help. Zoe overcooked it big time. You should have seen Maxine’s face."

Yes. Harold might have misled John slightly about his reasoning there. He had suspected that Zoe wouldn't be able to resist having a little fun in her role as past lover, and that her aggressive display would not soften Maxine towards John. He had actually been relying on the fact that every journalist in the city would kill to interview Zoe, and that Maxine wouldn't be above getting a little closer to John in order to get to her. And possibly also hoping she would lose all interest after she'd got what she wanted.

But Harold’s reasons for tanking the date were entirely selfish. What on earth had John been thinking?

John was still looking at him expectantly. Harold sighed.

"Yes, alright. We should have simply spoken to each other. All's well that end's well, I suppose." 

"Cheer up, Finch," John said picking up his coffee and coming out into the living room. "At least you got dinner out of it."

They settled on the sofa, and John entertained Harold by teaching him to say _left_ , _right_ , _closer_ , and _go around_ in Dutch, commands that Bear already knew judging by the way he bounced enthusiastically around the apartment. More treats were involved, and it clearly made man and dog so happy that Harold could only smile. 

John was obviously in a good mood tonight, joking and flirting and touching Harold frequently. He was gorgeous like this, a temptation so strong it was almost painful to sit a careful foot away from him on the couch, to keep his eyes from lingering too long.

But Harold couldn't settle, too aware of a problem floating in the back of his mind like a piece of grit in his shoe. He didn't believe for a second that John was worried Maxine would pursue him. So far they had successfully evaded both the CIA and the FBI; one investigative journalist wouldn't prove too taxing. But if that wasn't the explanation, then what? Why had John been so determined to look bad?

Once, Harold might have believed John had done it simply for dinner; the intimate atmosphere, the personal conversation, the chance to pry into Harold's secrets. But after Grace, he and John had come to a détente about their violation of each other’s privacy. Besides, at this point Harold would simply tell John anything he wanted to know. And John’s surprise in the cab had not been feigned.

When John excused himself to the bathroom, he got up and went to stand before the floor-to-ceiling windows. There were still a few stragglers wondering home with unsteady steps. Someone was singing. 

People could be as predictable as code, in their own way. You just had to learn to read them. John was a puzzle; never easy to understand at the best of times. Once, Harold had feared that lack of understanding, but now he found John’s occasional inscrutability fascinating. An enticing mystery for a man who’d never been able to resist a challenge.

He and John were alike that way.

Well, then. He just needed to apply a little logic. John had not been worried about Maxine. The only other consequence of his actions had been this evening. Therefore, John had wanted them to have dinner together. Perhaps he was worried they were working too hard and knew Harold wouldn't take a break. Perhaps he'd wanted an excuse to eat at a fancy restaurant, although Harold would have bought him dinner there any time he pleased. Perhaps… 

He didn’t turn around as John returned and came to stand next to him. Together they gazed out at the sleeping city. 

Apropos of nothing, John said, "I put a tracker in your glasses. After Root."

"I know. A sensible precaution, all things considered. And I’m sure you’re aware that I have one in your shoes." 

"Even when we don't talk, we do pretty well at working together anyway." 

"Are you implying that we deserve one another, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked, a little of the teasing coming back into his voice.

But John didn't respond. He looked away abruptly, and said in a voice almost too quiet for Harold to catch, "No. I know I don’t deserve you."

Harold glanced up sharply at John's reflection, floating pale as a ghost in the window. The wild hope that had been trying to insinuate it's way into Harold's heart all evening was taking root, whispering to him that he should take the risk. 

Occam's Razor. The simplest explanation was the most probable. John had taken him out on a date because – because John wanted to take him out on a date. 

"John," he said quietly, and when John turned he crossed the tiny space that was left between them, wrapped his fingers around John's lapels, and pulled him down. 

Light and soft as the brush of feathers, their lips touched. Harold held still, let the moment stretch along the edge of eternity, waiting for John's answer. The world around him was motionless, silent, waiting.

A second, two, and John pulled back. He was wearing an expression of incredulous joy that lit Harold up from the inside, and with it the world seemed to start spinning again. Cars were passing in the street below and Bear was making snuffling noises in his bed and John truly was standing there with his hands in Harold's and a slow smile starting to spread across his face. 

"Harold?" It was barely a whisper, but they were standing so close there was no need for more. John leaned back in again, slowly, carefully, and they kissed like that, with deliberate movements, two dancers cautiously re-learning an old tune.

When they pulled back a second time, John was wearing the familiar teasing expression that had become so infinitely dear to Harold. "You have another lesson for me?" he asked, low and intimate in Harold’s ear. 

"One more, I think." He had a thousand fantasies of John stored away in his mind, a thousand late nights when he had fallen asleep imagining John’s arms around him and John’s breathing in his ear. There would be time for them all, now.

But there was one fantasy he had cherished above all the others. "Kiss me again."

This time it was deeper; hot, messy. They moved slowly back towards the bed, still kissing. John's jacket slid easily from his shoulders, his shirt buttons coming undone effortlessly beneath Harold's fingers. He was so greedy for John's skin that he didn't even noticed he was still dressed until John kicked his pants off and tugged at Harold's jacket. 

"Are you going to take your clothes off?" John murmured. "Or are you going to fuck me fully dressed?"

Harold pressed his face into the side of John's neck. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs. The idea of stripping John and laying him out like a feast, using his hands and his mouth while John squirmed under him, and then undoing his fly and just— 

"Another time," he promised. "Lie down."

John stripped efficiently and sprawled in the middle of the bed, staring at Harold with hungry eyes while he took off his vest, his pants, somehow got his cufflinks out with shaking hands, and then he put his hand out to touch John again and John pulled him down onto the bed, catching him before he could fall, wrapping Harold in the warm circle of his arms. 

They couldn't stop kissing. Harold pulled back to breathe, to look at John, but kept coming back to his mouth, barely able to believe that he could do this at last. He’d dreamed for months of how good he could make John feel, if he was only allowed to touch him. "Let me," he murmured, hardly knowing what he was asking, and John groaned and whispered, "Anything," against his lips.

He kissed John every single place he'd ever stared at or thought about; his shoulders, his collarbones, the inside of his elbows, the tips of his fingers. John gasped when Harold gently closed his teeth around a nipple, sucked and licked until they were red and swollen, then moved down to bite the inside of John's thighs and brush the lightest touch of his fingers across John's balls. "Harold. Please."

But Harold kept going. Perhaps he had discovered a sadistic streak he didn't know he had, but he didn't want to let John come yet, not while there was still more pleasure to be wrung from his body. He held John down with devastating tenderness and gave him everything he wanted, everything he could ever have thought to ask for. When he finally rubbed a thumb over the wet head of John's cock, John whined and pleaded in between desperate kisses, and at the first firm stroke of his hand all the way down, John let go.

Watching John shudder through his orgasm was almost satisfaction enough, but John slid down the bed far enough to take Harold's cock in his mouth, cupping his ass with his hands and encouraging him to thrust, and Harold's arousal came flooding back, overwhelming him. 

After, John crawled up and draped himself over Harold, his face pressed into the crook of Harold's neck. Harold sighed deeply and sank into the mattress, let John's weight pin him in place, his warmth covering Harold like a blanket. He carded his fingers through John's hair. "I knew when we met that you were a skilled manipulator, but I think I underestimated just how devious you are."

"The CIA didn’t hire me because I’m pretty."

"Of course not, John. You’d be overqualified."

John huffed a laugh into Harold’s neck. "Smooth, Harold."

"At any rate, I can hardly complain about the results, even if your methods were a little unorthodox."

John shifted a little and propped himself on one elbow to look him in the eye. "I was angling for dinner alone with you. Nothing else."

"You weren’t hoping to 'get lucky'?"

"No," John said. He took Harold's hand and pressed his lips to the palm. "I don’t think I’ve ever in my life gotten this lucky." 

Harold couldn't manage a reply to that. He settled for cupping John's cheek, stroking a thumb across the high cheekbone. John sighed and leaned into it, bringing a hand up to hold Harold's in place. His eyes were half-closed, his expression unguarded. 

The glasses were gone, but Harold wasn't fooled. The rest of the world saw Superman. He was one of the few people privileged to see Clark Kent. 

"You know, John, we've been working together for a while now but you continue to surprise me." 

John laughed. "Likewise, Harold. Life with you is never dull."

He settled in with his head on Harold's chest, apparently with every intention of falling asleep right where he was. John was still smiling, a perfectly ordinary expression of pure happiness that was nevertheless doing something quite exceptional to Harold's heart. 

John mumbled into his chest, almost asleep, "Ready to do it all again tomorrow?"

Yes. Oh, yes. It would be terrifying and exhilarating and wonderful and he was ready to start as soon as possible. "Absolutely, John. It's a date."


End file.
